


The Stars Look Very Different Today

by argentum_ls (LadySilver)



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bonding, Found Family, Gen, Gift Fic, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge, Post-Canon Fix-It, mandela effect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/argentum_ls
Summary: Anything can happen on the Winter Solstice, including the entire world changing.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56
Collections: Highlander Secret Santa (ShortCuts) 2019





	The Stars Look Very Different Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



> Thanks to havocthecat for helping me with the first idea, and to JTT for picking up the pieces and getting me through the one that actually worked.
> 
> For Killa-
> 
> You’re wonderful and I hope you have a wonderful Shortcuts and a better next year. Sorry for botching the initial gifting.

When he wanted to, Methos could play the part of the inscrutable sage, passing commentary on happenings as if from a distance that let him see connections too complex for anyone without five millennia under their belts to comprehend. He stood, now, with his arms crossed on the balcony railing, staring out at the night sky. “Have you thought about what they mean? Recently, that is.”

“You mean, since space travel was invented?” Duncan asked.

“I had more in mind the telescope, though landing people on the moon did put a decided damper on viewing the stars as anything mystical.”

Duncan set down the mug of Hot Toddy he’d been holding and moved to join Methos at the railing. The brisk chill of winter covered him as he stepped away from the balcony doors and the heat of the rooms within, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp tang of cold. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

Methos had the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows and goose-flesh covered his lower arms. “And what have you concluded?”

“Why?” Duncan asked, suddenly suspicious. If he’d learned anything over the decades of their friendship, it was that when Methos played the sage, he had an ulterior motive.

Long seconds passed as Methos contemplated his answer. Overhead, a jet flew, the lights on the wings disrupting patterns of what stars the city light pollution still allowed to shine through. Methos’ shoulders tightened. “Because nothing makes any sense.”

Duncan waited for more: an elaboration, a diatribe, perhaps the start of an existential crisis. All Immortals went through the latter eventually, and Methos was certainly overdue. Only, he had gone back to scrutinizing the sky, scanning from one side of the heavens to the other as if he’d misplaced one of the bodies. The temperature was slowly dropping as the night matured, and already Duncan regretted stepped outside without a thicker sweater or a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. He thought about going back to recover his drink, then decided that, by now, it had also cooled beyond helpfulness. At last he prompted: “What doesn’t?”

“I already told you, MacLeod: Nothing.” Methos straightened, started to step away from the railing, then settled back. “I’ve been reading the stars--or trying to. Tea leaves, birds, cards. I even gave serious consideration to buying a white bull and sacrificing it--Don’t worry, I didn’t. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a properly consecrated altar these days?--None of it makes any sense.”

The matter-of-fact way Methos listed off the methods of divination raised Duncan’s hackles. Though he’d never given any thought to Methos’ religious preferences, he’d sort of assumed the man didn’t have any. “Ye can’t really believe in that superstitious nonsense?”

Methos shrugged. “After I lost my taste for ravishing the world, I had to do something with my time. Learning to read omens and portents kept me busy, and there was always demand for a good court astrologer.”

“That was centuries ago!”

“I don’t put much stock in it now,” Methos agreed. “Or, I didn’t. Spend a couple thousand years practicing a skill set and it becomes second nature; I’ve never really stopped reading the signs. It’s no different than you saying ‘bless you’ after someone sneezes, even though you don’t honestly believe they’ve temporarily expelled their soul. Do you?”

Duncan grumbled, but had to admit to the parallel. He opened his mouth to question Methos further, only to be interrupted by the frission of an arriving Immortal. A muted hallo from within the apartment confirmed a friendly arrivee a moment later, which was a relief since Duncan had left his sword inside, and he was in no mood to take a dive off the balcony.

“Well, that sign is easy to interpret, though I didn’t know you were expecting company.”

“Nor did I,” Duncan responded, brows drawing together at this upset to his plans. He’d planned a quiet evening: just he and Methos, enjoying drinks and conversation in celebration of Duncan’s birthday. Amanda was on the other side of the world, and Joe was no longer able to travel. “Did you tell someone we would be here?”

“Your house, your invitations,” Methos answered. “I only come over for the beer.” With that, he headed inside. As he opened the door, the warm air from inside slamming into the cold air outside caused the sliding glass door to fog up, preventing Duncan from seeing who Methos greeted on the other side with his own cheerful “Now, this is a surprise!” and a “long time, no see!” That the two knew each other, and were on friendly terms, eased the concern that the arrival of any Immortal brought. 

He was at a loss for who it could be, though. Who did he know who had a key to his apartment? Who would feel welcome to let themselves in without so much as knocking or ringing the doorbell first? The voice had struck a chord of familiarity, even if its closest match was impossible.

Grabbing his mug, he followed Methos inside--

\--and stopped, one foot over the threshold.

The mug slipped from his fingers and crashed on the hardwood floor, splashing cold frigid whiskey across his socked feet.

“That’s a waste of good liquor,” his guest commented. “Some might call it alcohol abuse.”

Once, that quip might have sparked an argument; now it sailed right past Duncan. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s your birthday. Where else would I be? I’ve brought dinner.” In emphasis, the guest hefted two paper bags that bore the logo of a local Italian restaurant Duncan had grown fond of. The scents of garlic and basil wafted out, slowly filling the room. “Your favorite.”

“But…” Duncan stared at the man before him: jeans, black t-shirt, dirt-stained sneakers. His longcoat was slung over the back of a nearby arm chair, while the distinctive hilt of his sword stuck out from the umbrella holder by the door. “It can’t--You can’t--How--?’

“Spit it out, Cousin.”

No one else ever called Duncan that, and the flippancy of the phrase was proof that went beyond what his eyes could see.

“I took your head!”

Connor laughed a guffaw that put his normal chuckle to shame, his eyes crinkling up at the apparent joke. “You couldn’t take my head if your life depended on it.”

“Which it definitely does not,” Methos commented. “Connor, why don’t you put those bags down and go round up some towels. And maybe a new pair of socks.”

Heedless of the spreading puddle or the shattered crockery in his way, Duncan made his way over to the other arm chair--the one without Connor’s coat on it--and sunk into it. How could this happen? Memories could be fickle things, and he’d lived through enough witch hunts and moral panics to know that people were perfectly capable of remembering things that never happened. But killing Connor? That memory was so vivid: the fear and horror he’d felt in the moment, the resignation in Connor’s expression. His hands flexed as his muscles recalled the resistance his sword had met at Connor’s neck.

Distantly, he heard Methos and Connor speaking to each other in low, strident tones that went on far longer than a negotiation of chores should. Only at the end did Methos speak a single word that came through clearly, though it meant nothing to Duncan in his own turmoil.

“I know what I did,” he called out to them. “I know what I did!” Connor’s sacrifice had allowed him to beat Kell, to take down an Immortal who had otherwise become unstoppable in his evil. And then Duncan had had to live with the pain of losing his teacher and clansman every day afterward. No amount of time would ever dull that memory--or allow him to remember anything except the raw truth. He started to stand, to repeat his assertion, then stopped as Methos returned to the room.

He was carrying a load of plates and cutlery, Connor close behind him with his own assigned items in hand. Both their faces were reddened from their argument. “No one doubts you, Duncan.” He glanced back at Connor, who looked quite doubtful indeed. “Well, I don’t doubt you.”

“It was in the Year of Our Lord, 2000," Duncan stated. "Decades ago. Connor, where have you been all this time? If you were alive, why did you wait so long to say so?”

Connor only gave a slight shake of his head, as if he’d been ordered not to say anything, then set about cleaning up the spilled drink.

"Before we explore the details of our yearly planners, why don't you fill us in on what you remember?" Methos suggested, his tone gentle. Or, gentle for him. He settled down on the floor, dragging the throw pillows off the couch as he did to sprawl against. 

Duncan didn't know if he could. Thinking about that night had been hard enough; he'd never put the full story into words. The idea of doing so now made his stomach churn. But, he knew that in this room, with these people, he had nothing to fear. His lifted his chin, steeling himself. 

By the time he finished, each of the men had a new round of whiskey--this one over ice--and only the lingering taste of garlic to remind them of a meal they'd barely given any notice to eating.

Connor had started pacing, occasionally reaching up to rub his neck as he strode around the room. "By your description, the Game sounds like some kind of--" He paused, searching for a word in the bottom of his glass. He found it, and spat it out with contempt. "Free-for-all? Each man to himself? Abomination!" He slammed the glass down on the top of the sideboard in disgust; everyone tensed in expectation of another household good meeting its end, then relaxed when the glass didn't shatter. Only a beat later did they realize what he'd said.

"How could it be anything else?" Duncan asked. "Immortals fight each other, and we kill each other. It's always been that way."

Methos stretched back against his pillows. “The fatal flaw with divination,” he mused, “is that it’s only accurate in hindsight."

Duncan and Connor both ignored him. Connor had strode over to Duncan's chair stood over him until Duncan was forced to meet his eyes. "You are a member of the Clan MacLeod," Connor stated. "I told you that when I took as you my student, and nothing has changed."

"Aye," Duncan answered, confused. He didn't understand why Connor would put such gravity on a fact no one had ever questioned. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"Somehow you have forgotten: Guilds work together. We are no more capable of turning on one another than we are of battling others on Holy Ground." Connor's effort to stay serious lasted only a handful of heartbeats more before he broke into a proud grin. "And the Clan MacLeod is the best of all the teams in this Game. Never doubt that." He proffered his arm for Duncan to accept, once again sealing their bond.

Methos observed the interaction with interest, then nodded slowly, understanding blooming.

This, Duncan didn't ignore. "Would you like to share?" His own confusion hadn't abated, despite the reassurance he'd found in grasping the very warm, very real arm of his Clansman.

"What?" Methos asked. "The realization that it's now snowing hard enough out there that, Immortal or not, none of us ought to be traveling anywhere until at least morning?" As one, they all glanced out the balcony window and observed the several inches of snow that had accumulated at the base of the railing. "Or the fact that, at some point recently, you and I--" He gestured between himself and Duncan--"slipped into a different reality."

Duncan blinked, running Methos' nonchalant addendum back through his mind in case he hadn't heard it correctly. But Methos' posture had taken on that satisfied air he wore when he right, knew it, and now was going to wait until everyone else knew it too. "We did what? That's impossible."

"Is it? Come on, Mac. You've lived long enough to know 'impossible' is not an absolute."

Duncan again looked at Connor, who'd moved back to the sideboard to refill his drink. Connor was alive. Any explanation for how that could be true was worth considering. "You seem pretty sure of this."

Methos shrugged. "Well, five thousand years: It's hardly the first time." A scowl drifted across his face as a different idea occurred to him, and he looked to Connor. "Since there are clearly a lot of differences to get up to speed on, maybe you could help a guy out." He waited for Connor's agreement before asking, "Mr. Monopoly: Does he wear a monocle?"

“No,” Duncan answered, confident in this answer at least. At the same time, Connor asserted the opposite, equally confidently.

"As expected," Methos stated, with a sagacious nod. "At least now I know what's going on, and everything should start to make sense again."

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Space Oddity" by David Bowie, and was additionally chosen as an homage to the idea many people have that the current "all bets are off" state of the world started when Bowie died.


End file.
